


Holly, Ivy, & Mistletoe

by RochestersJane



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Smut, Closets, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Lemon, Married Couple, Married Life, Married Sex, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-26 14:21:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2655203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RochestersJane/pseuds/RochestersJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas Eve, and the Potions Master and his wife have been invited to dinner, yet someone isn't quite ready...</p>
<p>This will be a short but sweet little Christmas lemon!  (I needed to break my writer's block with my Jaime/Brienne story, "Of Hearts and Flowers").  I hope you enjoy!  Thank you to Story Please for the SSHG inspiration...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Closet

The potions master’s wife sat down on the old oak chest in her enormous closet and regarded her reflection in the full-length mirror. She had just risen from a bath moments ago; a black silk dressing gown cascaded over the dewy softness of her twenty-something curves, cinched at the waist, and pooled prettily around her feet. Dramatic, bell-shaped sleeves nearly skimmed the floor; diaphanous ebony lace began at her shoulders and finished just shy of the large diamond encircled with tiny emeralds that sparkled on the fourth finger of her left hand. Antique gold combs encrusted with garnets and citrine held her sumptuous chestnut curls in a loose up-do; a few unruly spirals escaped around her temples and at the nape of her neck. Obsidian cosmetics touched up her eyes, while deep vermillion colored her pretty lips, rendering the young woman absolutely, gorgeously, breathtakingly, simultaneously worthy of worship and fucking—which were her husband’s exact and instantaneous thoughts as he came up behind her.

 

Her face lit from within as his dark eyes met her chocolate ones via the mirror.

 

“My love,” he purred.

 

“I’m sorry, Severus. I know I’m taking a long time getting ready.” She sounded wistful, and she broke his gaze, casting her eyes to her lap.

 

“Nonsense. There is no rush. Do you really think I am overly anxious to attend Christmas dinner at the Burrow? I merely came upstairs because I smelled roses.”

 

Hermione glanced at the un-stoppered cut-glass bottle in her right hand. It contained an excellent rose-scented moisturizer that Severus made up for her himself. The scent was intoxicating—and arousing.

 

“Is something wrong, my dear?” Severus knelt behind her on the thick ivory carpet, tipping up her chin so she could meet his gaze in the mirror.

 

“No—well, yes—but no—oh, sod it. It’s just that I don’t feel like going tonight.” She tried to look away, but he maintained his light grip.

 

“Hermione, talk to me.” He let go of her chin and rested his hands on the oak chest, framing her hips. He leaned forward, closed his eyes, and nuzzled the back of her neck with his nose, pressing a soft kiss to her skin.

 

She sighed heavily and slumped over. At her change in body position, Severus rose and walked around the chest, dropping back down to his knees, in front of her this time. He took the bottle from her hand and tipped some of the lotion into his palm. “May I?”

 

She nodded, not looking at him.

 

With the other hand, he drew each of her legs one at a time through the part in the soft fabric of her dressing gown and placed her dainty feet on top of his hard thighs. He quietly rubbed his hands together and began to caress them, slowly and soothingly. Tears immediately pricked her eyes. His deep love for her was overwhelming, and his touch elicited a painful pleasure. She took a shuddering breath.

 

“I’m so sorry, Severus,” she raised her head to look into his face, which was a mask of concern. That was bittersweet. It had taken him so long to stop pretending that nothing fazed him in front of her, and yet it pained her greatly to see him upset. He was so, so strong; he had endured so much and for so many years. It was past time for him to lay down his burdens; it was only fair that he should finally be allowed to express himself openly, especially in front of his wife. She hated to cause him more distress. She’d promised herself that she would be nothing but good for him the day she realized that she loved him; but the aftermath had been beyond difficult—she hadn’t realized how much easier it had been to have her own emotions when she was an unmarried woman, and thus enjoyed the freedom of unchecked, unadulterated feelings. For most of his life, Severus’s feelings had been of no concern to anyone. This knowledge caused her sorrow, particularly since she had been one of those who had not thought of him much beyond his cantankerous exterior. In the present, it was strange to remember that there had indeed been a time when she hadn’t cared for him, loved him, shared a home with him, lay bare her body and soul to him. She didn’t know in the beginning that discussing hopes and desires and disappointments and pain with a husband would sometimes mean that she would have to curtail her own emotional expressions for his sake. No one had mentioned that at her wedding or even before. No one told had Hermione how to be married, and she had found that books about the subject didn’t quite do the trick, other than to state that communication was important ( _Well, duh,_ she had thought); no one had written any books about how to be married to a half-blood former Death-Eater turned secret hero with daddy issues and a murdered first love.

 

No, their engagement had been just about the excitement of the planning, the event itself, the toasts and singing, the “happily ever after.” (Of course, since she was a child, she had heard the terrible jokes boys and men often told about wives and women; of course she had heard women—some of whom were the very same women who had been excited about their own weddings, who had gushed over the announcement of hers—complain about their husbands severely lacking in one area or another, in tones that had made her uncomfortable. Her parents had been (and still were) happy, but Hermione understood now that over the years, they had hidden much from her too. It was all so confusing, and Hermione felt like it was October in her first year at Hogwarts again—she knew where her dormitory was, when meals were served, in which sections of the library she was allowed—but getting along with others (especially others who weren’t unfamiliar with being magical!) still eluded her, and this had caused her loneliness and depression).

 

And now, despite it being Christmas, a night traditionally imbued with hope, promise, love, and magic—Hermione felt anxious, unsettled, and despondent—she shouldn’t feel this way. _We are in love. Love should be enough._ A tear welled over and traced a path down her cheek.

 

Severus’s long fingers moved up to soothe her ankles. He squeezed them gently, the strength in his hands at once comforting and secure. “Tell me, Hermione,” he said quietly. “Just tell me all about it, whatever it is. I’ve got you.”


	2. Chapter 2:  The Plea

His wife was crying. His _wife_ was crying, and he was holding onto her _ankles_. He didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do. He had been a bachelor forever, it seemed, and somehow, suddenly, the universe had drawn this exquisite creature to him who actually _wanted_ to be with him, who actually _returned_ his love, who gave him a reason to keep living, who made him feel like his life was not to be pitied, like it was not a lost cause, like he could still contribute something to the world, like he deserved to be happy, to have a real companion—and yet, here she was: married to him for less than a year, crying and half-dressed in the closet. _Potter was right. I_ am _a git._

 

Severus had had no real positive role models for marriage—unless one counted the Weasleys, the Lupins (prior to the War), or even the Longbottoms (pre-Cruciatus), which he did not. Lupin and Tonks simply made him shudder. He found it physically uncomfortable to think about others’ marital commitments; and, in reality, those matters had no room in a mind that traversed so frequently between the dark and the light. (Naturally, he had _never_ allowed himself to _consider_ the Potters’ union, unless it was to mentally curse James, which he often followed up by imagining James’s gruesome death (sometimes he even imagined causing it), and then subsequently picture himself consoling a poor, widowed Lily—and that had been so soul-wrenching that he had locked most of those feelings away deep within him—until a certain eleven year-old boy had arrived at Hogwarts, that wretched autumn…).

 

It was truly unfortunate that young Harry shared so many of his father’s features—right down to his voice, certain facial expressions, the uncanny ability to attract dunderheaded comrades, the cocksure-but-unsubstantiated attitude, and—most annoying of all—the capture of a lovely fire-haired witch, who certainly could have done better. _What_ _in the Name of Merlin_ _had Arthur Weasley been thinking?!_ (Severus himself had wanted to shake Ginny Weasley to within an inch of her life when it became common knowledge that Harry was courting her, yet Hermione had distracted him by unexpectedly removing her clothes— _damn witch_ ). Snape never could look at Harry straight-on, not even in the present—he found it was a little too much like it was Lily looking back at him, and he still couldn’t face her disapproval—even though most of him had accepted that she was long dead, and therefore she certainly no longer concerned herself with him, and that she probably hadn’t thought too much about him in the final months before her death, anyway).

 

Severus tightened his grip on Hermione’s ankles, and tried to ameliorate his features so that she wouldn’t misconstrue his stormy countenance for anything other than his loving concern. This was difficult to do, as since he and Hermione had been together, he had slowly become used to relaxing around her, which she called “being himself” (he had not been blind to her exultation over this situation; he had chosen to ignore it, out of a lack of energy and emotional experience with which to appropriately analyze and respond to her gleeful reaction). “Being himself”—this had been frightening both in concept and in practice, because Severus was not really sure _who_ he was, now that the War was over and that Dumbledore had been right ( _damned old schemer_ ). He knew there were those who still didn’t trust him, who blamed him for many of the innocent deaths perpetrated by Voldemort and definitely for the Headmaster’s demise, no matter what Harry Potter had testified on his behalf, nor the fact that the brilliant and beautiful female member of the Golden Trio had agreed to marry him, astonishingly _of her own volition_ , and not (as some still whispered over their butter-beers in the Three Broomsticks) because she was under the effects of the Imperius Curse.    

 

Severus took a deep breath and slowly let go of her ankles, cupping her feet and bringing them to his lips. He kissed the tops of her feet and laid his cheek against them, feeling her warm skin, inhaling the delicious scent of roses. He closed his eyes and remained quiet, waiting for her to break the silence. Perhaps that was what she needed. Maybe she just wanted him to sit with her and wait, to wait and be quiet. At least he hoped so, because he was out of ideas. He closed his eyes.    

 

 _Happy Buggering Christmas, indeed_. And here he thought that this was a day when all Muggles were supposed to be disgustingly happy! Obviously he must have let his mind wander during part of the Christmastide lecture when he took Muggle Studies at Hogwarts. Oh sure, Hermione was a damned fine witch, practically the finest, but didn’t she have enough Muggle-culture bred into her that she would have absorbed the _merry-this-and-that_ , the _fa-la-la_ , the _bring us your_ _figgy pudding_? He opened his eyes and regarded her neatly-lacquered toenails—in glittery ( _Slytherin?_ ) Christmas-green, no less. _Well, she did_ don the gay apparel _, at least. Mostly._

 

He felt her hand rest on his head, and then her fingers lightly threaded through sections of his thick, silky, black hair.

 

In response, Severus slowly settled her feet back onto his thighs. He raised his head, reached for her fingers, and softly kissed her palm. He placed her hand back into her lap, then picked up the bottle again, tipping more lotion into his hands, and moved on to massage her calves. Hermione’s back straightened and her eyes closed as his fingers firmly pressed into her flesh.

 

He noticed that she had stopped crying. Mere traces of tears glistened on her cheeks. He sighed quietly in relief. He moved his hands up to her knees and drew his fingers into the creases behind them, causing Hermione to straighten her legs slightly and replace her hand on his head. He kissed each of her knees. Soft and sweet kisses, leaving no inch of her skin untouched, they had plenty of time. They had nothing but time. He would not rush her. He just needed to be quiet. To wait and to be quiet. To sit with her, to touch her quietly. Eventually she would say something. She would. Whatever it was, she would tell him. She was not like him. She was not broken. She was not damaged. She would tell him. Whatever it was. _Just wait._ He smoothed more of the rosy balm onto her legs, and rubbed small, slow, steady circles over her kneecaps and up her lovely thighs with his thumbs. Her fingers laced themselves into his hair again; her other hand moved from her lap and grasped the edge of the oak chest.

 

“Please, Severus,” she pleaded softly. “ _Please_.”


	3. Chapter 3:  The Kiss

Severus’s body jerked when he heard her plea. _Severus, please…please._ It held echoes of another plea— _not as dire, please Merlin, it can’t possibly be as dire as before!_ He looked up and into his wife’s face, and this time she met his gaze. He saw such a need written within that he immediately straightened his back and took her face in his hands and kissed her—one, two, three, four, five, six kisses, soft and firm and on her beautiful red lips, and then on the seventh kiss he pulled even closer, opening his mouth to claim hers, deepening his kiss, allowing his passion and love to bleed through. _Fuck waiting._ His tongue met hers with surety, hers more tentative, but he persisted, his torso now between her legs, his arms encircled her back, powerfully clutching her to him. A little whimper rose from Hermione’s throat, and she threaded her arms around his neck, clinging to him fiercely. He responded by reaching into her hair and grasping her bejeweled combs. He barely broke contact with her lips to mutter, “May I?” She answered with something like a sob.

 

The combs were pulled from her hair and fell from his hand to rest in the plush ivory carpet. Rich chestnut curls tumbled down around her face. Severus could smell roses and cocoanut and a hint of parchment and the pure, sweet scent of Hermione’s skin, and instantly he was hard and ravenous. He pulled her closer. She whimpered, and her legs wrapped around his back. He lifted her off of the chest and laid her onto the carpet. “Hermione,” he breathed. “Hermione. Hermione. Hermione. My sweet, little wife. My love...”

 

“Severus, _please_!” she said again, tears glittering in her deep brown eyes.

 

“Hermione…”

 

And then he knew.

**Author's Note:**

> It's my first time with this pairing! Let me know if you like it! (Please, no nasty/mean comments. This is all free and for fun, after all...)


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